


Family Ties

by Inkwell1013



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Foster Family, But there are a few flashbacks, Child Neglect, Established Relationship, F/F, Foster Care, Gen, Husbands, John Watson is a Good Parent, M/M, Panic Attacks, Parenthood, Physical Abuse, Sherlock is Trying His Best, Trans Character, Trans Issues, Trans Male Character, mostly off screen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24182452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkwell1013/pseuds/Inkwell1013
Summary: John and Sherlock have been married for a few years. They have never considered adoption or fostering before. A random offhand remark causes Sherlock to research the Foster Care system, which he becomes very interested in. They decide to apply to be foster parents and their first placement is a trans teenager named Max.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 74





	1. Chapter 1

It was a tranquil Saturday evening, one reserved for movie nights in the Holmes-Watson household. It had been John’s turn to choose the film, and he selected some family drama, as he always did. As he and Sherlock sat down for a quiet night in, John made an off-hand comment, spurred on by the movies child-orientated antics. “Wouldn’t it be fun to be parents?” he laughed “Maybe we should sign up to foster,”

“Are you serious?” asked Sherlock, surprised at the turn of the conversation.

“Not really. I mean, it would be interesting, though,” responded John, pausing the film and standing up. “Do you want some tea?” he said as he wandered into the kitchen, but Sherlock didn’t hear him. His thoughts were too preoccupied with the notion of him and John as parents. It was ridiculous, but in a way, the image felt right. As if it was the correct choice for them to make.

John came back, handing Sherlock the cup of hot tea that he didn’t ask for, but realized he wanted as John handed it to him. It was a sweet gesture, Sherlock thought, as he watched John sip his own mug of tea and watch the film intently. He did his best to focus on the films inane plot and ridiculous characters but he found himself distracted.

Would he and John be good parents if they did foster? He considered the question. John would slip right into the role. He was a very fatherly person. As for himself, Sherlock wasn’t so sure. His unusual tendencies and blunt demeanor meant that his few interactions with small children had been negative ones. What were the requirements for foster parents? He searched his mind palace for any information on the subject but found nothing.

Sherlock looked back at the television to find the credits rolling. The movie was over already. John gave a little yawn, standing up. “Are you coming to bed, Sherlock?”

“I will in a bit,” said Sherlock. Sherlock staying up well past a decent hour wasn’t unusual behavior, so John shrugged it off, going to bed and falling asleep almost immediately. Sherlock, on the other hand, was wide awake, and his mind was racing with questions.

He would just do a little research, he decided, cracking open his laptop. Just for ten minutes or so. No more. Then he would go to bed.

John's ringing alarm clock jolted him awake. Instinctively, he looked to see if Sherlock was in bed. He wasn’t. While it was becoming less common, Sherlock did sometimes forget to sleep if he got too wrapped up in something, just as he sometimes forgot to eat or shower in the middle of a case.

There was one time where Sherlock became so invested and perplexed by a case that he didn’t sleep for five days, nor did he shower, and while John couldn’t prove it, he was certain he went without food as well. His rut had only ended when John grabbed him under the arms and dragged him into the bathroom, ordering that he take a shower.

John stood up, making the bed and getting dressed with a military-like precision, a habit cemented in his mind by his many years in the army. He opened up the curtains, letting the bright morning sun into their bedroom. It was a lovely day, perfect for pancakes for breakfast and making Sherlock accompany him for a walk in the park. As much as Sherlock feigned protest, John knew he enjoyed it.

As he went to the kitchen, John paused in shock. The apartment was in a state of wild disarray, with papers strewn about and drawers thrown open. The door stood wide open. Had they been robbed? Where was Sherlock? Shit. John reached for the landline, about to call the police, when Sherlock burst through the door, holding a heavy-looking cardboard box.

“Where the hell were you, Sherlock?” John demanded, shaking with rage. “You have to tell me when you plan to go somewhere,”

Sherlock gave him a determined look, setting the box down on the table. “I was thinking about what you said, and I decided to do some research on the internet, and then I went to the library – did you know that the library is open twenty-four hours a day? – and I borrowed some books on the subject. I thought we could look through them together,”

John was still confused. “What on earth are you talking about?” he demanded.

“Being foster parents. And parenting in general. Do keep up, John,” said Sherlock, snarkily, lifting the lid off the box. There were a dozen or so books inside, with titles like “Parenting 101” and “So You’re A Father: Now What?” that John found faintly patronizing.

“Sounds like a fun way to spend a Sunday,” said John sarcastically, but Sherlock wasn’t listening, already skimming the first chapter of a book and scribbling down notes. “I’m going to make pancakes for breakfast,” John announced and Sherlock nodded distantly.

Thirty minutes later, he plated up the food and set it before Sherlock, who was still nose-deep in a book, but grabbed a fork and ate without looking. John had a mouthful. It was good but certainly not his best work. Once they had finished eating, John glanced at the ticking clock on the wall. It was about midday. Time for their walk he decided, telling Sherlock to fetch his shoes so they could leave.

“So how do we start?” John asked as he threw on his coat. Sherlock looked at him confused, as he pulled on his gloves and scarf. “The process of becoming foster parents,” he added.

“You’re on board with this?” Sherlock asked.

“I think I am. I mean it’ll be difficult but I think it would be a rewarding experience. You know, giving them a place to call home I guess,” John said. The two left for their walk as Sherlock spouted all the information he had gathered on the foster care system, which was quite a lot. John listened to him with a contented smile. He knew that they had made the right decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on tumblr.  
> [my account](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/inkwell1013)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty long chapter this time. Enjoy!

John and Sherlock returned from their walk and John found himself with a much deeper knowledge of the application process involved in the foster system that he had before they left. He took off his coat and hung it up carefully, watching as Sherlock threw his in a crumpled pile on a floor, before starting to wander off, still wearing his scarf and gloves.

“Not so fast buddy,” said John grabbing the end of Sherlock’s scarf, stopping him in his tracks. “You know the rules. No scarves or gloves indoors,” Sherlock looked down, as if he hadn’t even realized he was still wearing them. He fiddled with his gloves, as John loosened the soft, grey material from Sherlock’s neck, hanging it up on the coat rack. Sherlock bundled up his gloves, guiltily picking up his coat, stuffing them in the pocket, and hanging it up.

“Good. That wasn’t so hard was it?” John chucked.

Sherlock nodded noncommittally, sat down on the armchair, and turned on his laptop, opening a webpage. Clicking on the link to the enquiry form, he showed it to John, who – ever the Englishman – had immediately made them both some hot tea. John sat down on the arm of the chair, next to Sherlock and handed him his drink, which he drank gratefully.

“This is the form we have to fill in, huh?” said John, peering at the screen “Isn’t it kinda barebones?”

“Well they do some home visits, to make sure our house is safe and to get to know more about us, and we’ll have to go to some courses. Also, we have to get approved by a panel. This is basically just to know the basic information so the home visit can occur. They’ll ask us more questions then,” explained Sherlock, filling in the form with their names, address and contact information.

“Are you working Monday, John?” he asked.

“Yeah. But I’ll finish around six thirty, as long as there are no big emergencies,” responded John.

“Okay…” said Sherlock, typing something on the form “Shall I made the home visit appointment for seven o’clock?”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” said John, going to the kitchen. “You want to have some soup for lunch?” Sherlock agreed. It was a cold winter day and some hot soup would warm them both up. Sherlock finished filling in the form and submitted it, before going to help John out in the kitchen.

John drummed his fingers on his desk, glancing at the clock and counting the seconds until he could leave. Just a few more minutes. If he left on time, at half six, and factored in the ten minute bus ride, he would be left with twenty minutes to finish cleaning the kitchen before the social worker arrived. Also, he would have to make sure to empty out the fridge, to make sure Sherlock hadn’t left any of his experiments in there. Having someone find a bag of toes or a severed head wouldn’t be the best way to show that they were trustworthy individuals.

The clock ticked down each agonizing second. Just a minute or so longer. As long as his assistant didn’t come in within the next sixty seconds with a patient, he would be able to leave on time. He almost didn’t hear the meek knock on the door.

His assistant Martha came into the room, leading in an elderly woman. “Dr Watson? I know it’s nearly time for you to leave but Mrs Smith wants to talk to you about her meds,” she said. “I tried to explain that she had to take them every day but she won’t listen to me. Is it a bother?”

John gritted his teeth. “No, it’s fine,” he muttered. Mrs. Smith had a reputation for being a bit stubborn and not listening to doctors when told to take her medication. This conversation would take a while. He would be late home. While explaining to Mrs. Smith why she had to take her medication daily and how she couldn’t just take an entire weeks’ worth in one sitting, he pulled his phone out his pocket, sending Sherlock a brief message.

**Got caught up at work. I might be late. If you could clean the kitchen for me that would be great. -JW**

He got a message from Sherlock just seconds later.

**Okay. I will clean up. When will you to get home? -SH**

John nodded at Mrs. Smith’s random gossiping, typing out a reply.

**About 7:15, by my best guess. Also, you have to take your experiments out the fridge. And try to be nice to the social worker when they get there. -JW**

**But John, if I take them out now all the results will be useless. -SH**

**Okay fine. I’ll take them to Bart’s. Molly will look after them for me. -SH**

He smiled faintly. Sherlock could be stubborn at times, but John found it sweet instead of irritating. In the end, it took about thirty minutes to clear up the situation, and John ended up clocking out at seven o’clock. He missed the bus and had to wait for the next one for fifteen minutes in the drizzling rain. Hopefully it wouldn’t start raining more, he didn’t have a coat or umbrella with him. It was quarter past when the creaky old bus pulled up to the stop, and John boarded.

He ought to text Sherlock to let him know that he would be even later than he thought, he decided, pulling out his phone, but when he tried to turn it on he realized that it was dead. It would be fine. What was the worst that could happen to Sherlock in ten minutes?

Sherlock fidgeted at his desk. He had already cleaned the kitchen and dropped his experiments at St Bartholomew’s and now he was bored. John should be here by now. Where was he? He was late and the social worker was late too. How annoying.

He heard a knock at the door. It wasn’t John, he would just let himself in, so logically it would be the social worker. Sherlock really wanted John to be here when the social worker arrived. He wasn’t great with new people and he needed John to stop him from taking his observations too far sometimes.

“Come in,” he said. The woman opened the door and stepped inside holding a damp, folded up umbrella. He stood up and approached her. Shake her hand and smile, he thought. He examined her carefully. She was shorter than average, with wavy blonde hair. Not a natural blonde though, he realized. The hair at her scalp was brown were it had grown through. Wait. Stop looking at her hair. Look at her face. Keep smiling. Keep shaking her hand.

She had green eyes, like pine trees. When she smiled, Sherlock noticed that her teeth were slightly yellowed in a way that was indicative of smoking damage. Likely an ex-smoker he decided, as he didn’t see a cigarette packet or lighter in her blouse pocket.

Her blouse was a nice shade of blue that paired well with her black pencil skirt. There was a pen and small notepad in her breast pocket. Would she be taking notes? No, stop looking at the pocket. She’ll get upset at you. Look at her face. Where was John?

“I’m Amelia,” she smiled. “Is it okay for me to hang up my umbrella?” Sherlock nodded, glancing at the door behind her, hoping that John would hurry up and arrive and she hung it up. “Are you William Holmes?” she asked, making her way to the chair and sitting neatly.

“Yes, but I prefer my middle name. Call me Sherlock. Do you want something to drink?” he asked. Yes, that was something you asked people when they came to visit. She didn’t respond for a second and Sherlock was worried that he remembered incorrectly. It wouldn’t be the first time he messed up social cues. He was proved wrong when she gave him a friendly smile. “Water is fine. Thank you,”

Sherlock filled a glass with tap water and set in on the coffee table. He sat down on the couch.

“So, you live with your partner John Watson. Is that correct?” said Amelia. Sherlock nodded. “Will he be joining us this evening?”

“Yes. He just got caught up at the hospital,” explained Sherlock, tapping his foot on the floor. Outside, the storm clouds were dousing the passersby with rain. Had John taken an umbrella to work today? Probably. He was usually a pretty well prepared person – an after effect of his years in the military.

The door slammed open, and John stumbled in, drenched from head to toe. Sherlock smirked and John shot him a sharp look. “Don’t you dare, Sherlock,” he snapped. Sherlock coughed and cocked his head in Amelia’s direction. John turned bright red when he realized that the social worker was there. Turning up on the doorstep soaked to the bone wasn’t a great way to make a good first impression.

He buried his embarrassment and smiled warmly at Amelia, shaking her hand. “I hope you’ll excuse me for a moment while I get changed. Today’s storm took me by surprise,” he laughed.

“That’s quite alright,” replied Amelia. John went into the bedroom to put on some dry clothes, leaving Sherlock alone again.

“Would you mind if I have a little look around your apartment?” said Amelia.

“I have no problem with that,” said Sherlock. He showed her briefly around the kitchen and living room. John came to join them, still toweling off his hair, and they let her take a look around their bedroom, which felt like a slight invasion of privacy. Last of all, they showed her their spare room, where the child would be staying.

It was a small but practical room, with cream painted walls and a single bed with neat grey sheets. The desk, bedside table and chest of drawers were all made of polished oak and were all, empty. Amelia was pleased at the overall neatness of the apartment and they went to finish off the home visit in the living room.

“John, you mentioned that you work at the hospital. What’s your specific position? Also, could you tell me a bit about your past employment,” Amelia asked.

“I’m a general practitioner at a nearby hospital,” responded John “But before that, I was an army doctor. Honorable discharge, I was injured in combat”

“Thank you for your service. Was it anything serious?” asked Amelia.

“Not really, I have a mild limp and some scarring. I can get around easily with a cane and though it can be a struggle, I can also move without one. I just couldn’t effectively serve in the army anymore, so I was discharged,”

“Okay,” said Amelia, scribbling down some notes. “What about you Sherlock?”

“I’m a consulting detective,” said Sherlock, grinning cockily at Amelia’s confusion “I assist the police when they’re in over their head. Also, I take the occasional private case,”

Amelia nodded, taking more notes. The rest of the interview was equally successful and Amelia left, telling them to expect a few more phone calls and interviews from her within the week, so she could build a more detailed profile of them.

John and Sherlock collapsed on the couch. Answering such personal questions was exhausting and all they wanted to do was order pizza and go to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on tumblr.  
> [my account](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/inkwell1013)


	3. Chapter 3

Amelia had visited and called them half a dozen times over the last fortnight, gathering a lot of information. The amount of stuff she knew about them was almost unsettling. They had told her things that they had told no-one else but each other.

In the meantime, John and Sherlock were attending classes. It was an interesting experience. Sherlock kept whispering deductions about the other attendees in John’s ear and wasn’t afraid to tell people that they were being stupid or hypocritical, which didn’t make them many friends. John had to drag him outside and tell him to behave, and that got them both some weird looks.

The classes had been varied if uncomprehensive and Sherlock supplemented them with his own research. The living room wall was quickly covered in sheets of neatly written notes and John couldn’t move for all the books scattered around the room. He was glad that Sherlock was preparing himself but this was a bit much.

Going before panel was terrifying. John swore that his heart was beating out his chest and he had to grab Sherlock’s hand to calm himself down. Sherlock wasn’t the most physically affectionate person and some hand holding was the most that he usually allowed, but today he pulled John into a tight hug without prompting. Though he didn’t want to admit it, Sherlock was scared too. He wanted this so much and he wasn’t sure what he would do if they were rejected.

The door creaked open and Amelia came out. Sherlock couldn’t read her expression. He assumed the worst. They had been rejected. Why? It was him wasn’t it? They had heard about his previous drug addiction and decided he wouldn’t be a good enough parent, even though he had been clean for five years. Or was it is personality? Maybe Amelia had found him weird. But he tried so hard to be friendly. It just wasn’t good enough.

John would be so upset. They had both worked so hard for this. He wanted to run or hide or just disappear completely. He didn’t want to see the disappointment on John’s face. He wasn’t sure that he could take it.

John’s firm grip on his hand brought him back to reality. Amelia’s words pierced through the fog of his mind. “You’ve been approved,”

Crap, he knew it. They had been rejected. John laughed giddily. Why was he so happy? Sherlock ran the words through his mind again. “You’ve been approved,” It clicked in his mind. They had been approved.

He turned to John, smiling brightly, pulling him into a vice like hug. He was so hopped up on the adrenaline that he was shaking all over, and he couldn’t keep himself from laughing. They were told that they could expect the first placement soon, though they were warned that it could be at pretty much any time and they might have to wait quite a while. Sherlock nodded, not really listening.

When Sherlock was told that he and John would have a bit of a wait before their first call, he was both pleased that they’d have some time to prepare and a little annoyed that he had to wait. Sherlock had never been good at waiting for anything. He spent most of his time rejecting clients, stocking up on basic supplies, such as toiletries, and obsessing over his research. John spent most of his time making tea and cleaning obsessively. Both of them insisted that they were fine, but it was clear that they were both anxious.

It was a quiet Friday afternoon when they got the phone call. Sherlock was working a rare case that he was actually interested in and John was at the supermarket, buying something or other. When the landline first rang, Sherlock called out for John. “John, can you get the phone. I’m busy,” He heard no reply. That’s right. John was out. Grumbling, he stormed to the phone. It was probably some rich idiot with more money than time, who wanted him to solve a mystery that anyone with half a brain could figure out, even those morons at Scotland Yard.

He was surprised to hear a curt voice on the other end of the line. “Is this the Holmes-Watson household?” she demanded sharply.

“Yes,” he said confused. “Why are you calling?”

“We have a placement for you. It’s a fourteen year old girl. Charlotte Miller. Her parents are currently awaiting trial for physical child abuse. Will you take her?” she asked.

Sherlock paused for a second, texting John.

**Just got a call for a placement. A fourteen year old girl. You up for it? – SH**

“Nevermind,”said the woman “I’ll find someone else,”

“Wait,” said Sherlock “I’m just messaging my husband,” As he said that, a message came through.

**Yes! – JW**

Sherlock smiled. “We’ll be happy to have her,” he said.

“Are you sure?” asked the woman snidely “Teenager tend to be difficult placements, especially for first time foster parents,”

There was something mildly mocking in her voice. “Yes I’m sure,” said Sherlock. “When will she get here?”

“We’ll be there in thirty minutes,” sighed the woman, hanging up the phone.

John abandoned his basket in the aisle as he left the store. He started in a walk before breaking into a run. He was excited but also a bit anxious. He threw open the door and found Sherlock sitting on the sofa. “Nervous?” asked John.

“Yes, what if she doesn’t like us?” asked Sherlock.

“We’ll just have to do our best,” said John, confidently.

There was a knock at the door and the woman let herself in, trailed by a child. The social worker was a middle-aged brunette woman, with an uninteresting wardrobe and a secret affair with her husband’s best friend.

The child hid behind her, clutching a black binbag. She was small and lean, with olive skin and basil green eyes. There was a deep purple bruise blooming over her left eye. John all but gasped at her hair. It was hacked short, in a messy, boyish cut. Had someone cut it off? John smiled, hiding his shock.

“I’m John and this is my husband Sherlock,” he said, trying his best to be welcoming. She flinched as he held out his hand. Something told him that this would be an interesting first placement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on tumblr.  
> [my account](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/inkwell1013)


	4. Chapter 4

The social worker left with a grumbled goodbye, leaving them alone with the child, who sat silently on the chair, not talking or moving at all. It was almost like she believed that if she was silent, they wouldn’t try to talk to her.

Sherlock gently took the bag from the child’s grip, which they reluctantly released. Opening the bag, he realized that it was nothing but clothes. This child had literally nothing but the clothes she held. She had her entire life in a binbag and Sherlock was almost sad for her. It must had been hard to have all your things treated like trash. “I can put this away for you,” Sherlock offered.

She nodded, staring at the floor, unmoving. Sherlock went to the spare bedroom to put them in the chest of drawers. He took a glance around the room. It was nice enough, but a bit bare. Maybe the kid could put up some posters of bands or something. Teens liked that kinda thing, right?

The mood in the kitchen was awkward. “So Charlotte, are you a Charlie or a Lottie?” John asked cheerfully.

“My name is Max,” came the muted reply.

John was confused. “I’m not sure I understand. “Your case worker told me that your name is Charlotte,”

“Don’t listen to anything she says. My name is Max and I’m a boy,” he said, fidgeting in his seat.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were a girl,” said John.

“Yeah. Everyone thought I was a girl when I was born, even the doctors” explained Max. It clicked in John’s brain. Max was trans. John took a moment to consider it. He saw no problem with the concept. He walked behind the boy’s chair to put on the kettle, and watched in confusion as the kid flinched and moved into the brace position.

“Please don’t hurt me,” he implored. “I won’t be any trouble. You won’t even know I’m here,”

John balked at the mere insinuation. Then, he remembered the boy’s less than stellar home life. “I’m not going to hurt you, Max. I’m just making some tea. Do you want any?” he offered.

Max looked at him skeptically, as if he could snap and attack him at any moment. “Yes please,” he said.

“How do you take your tea?” John asked.

“Just milk. Thank you,” said the boy. John brewed the tea and poured two cups, remembering at the last second to pull out a third mug for Max. He passed the boy the tea, which he took and sipped carefully. Sherlock came back into the room. He took his tea and sat down on the couch. John motioned for Max to join them, which he did cautiously.

“What do you want to watch Max?” asked John. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the name. John could see gears turn in Sherlock’s mind, then he smiled and gave John a meaningful glance.

“I don’t mind,” muttered the boy. John flicked through a few channels, finding an old show he watched as a child. Though he was slow to admit it, the show was still one of his guilty pleasures. Max’s eyes brightened. “I love this show!” he exclaimed, before suddenly turning quiet.

“I like it too,” reassured John with a smile. “I used to watch it with my family when I was your age,”

Max was still quiet. Sherlock coughed loudly, breaking the silence. “Let’s order Chinese. We haven’t eaten dinner yet, have we John?” he announced. That was a good idea. John hadn’t realized yet, but he was pretty hungry. He looked at Max – the kid might not have eaten for hours – and decided that it was a very good idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on tumblr.  
> [my account](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/inkwell1013)


	5. Chapter 5

Saturday passed quietly and Sunday exploded into existence with a sharp crash. John jolted awake at the noise. He noticed Sherlock asleep next to him, undisturbed. While he didn’t sleep as much as he probably should, when he did sleep he slept like a log. Nothing could wake him. The alarm clock at his bedside said 6am.

Eventually, he decided to let Sherlock stay asleep and went to investigate the sound himself. There was nothing unusual about the kitchen or living room, so the only place the noise came from was Max’s room. He knocked and opened the door.

Shards of mirror were scattered about the polished wood floor, along with the frame. Max was crouched on the floor, clearly distressed. “I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up,” he muttered, picking up a fragment of the mirror.

“No. Stop.” commanded John, using his lieutenant voice. “Don’t pick it up with your hands. I’ll get a broom,” He fetched the broom from the kitchen and grabbed his and Max’s shoes from the rack. He went back into the room and handed Max his trainers. “Put these on. I don’t want you to get glass in your feet,” He pulled on his boots and Max laced up his shoes.

The two cleaned everything up relatively quickly and cut open an empty milk bottle to store the glass. By the time they were finished, it was breakfast time and John decided to put some bread in the toaster and brew some coffee. Max sat at the kitchen table doing homework quietly.

“So how did the mirror get broken?” asked John.

“I broke it. I’m sorry. It was like it was mocking me. When I looked in it, it was like it was showing me a fake version of myself. Almost like I was trapped in another person’s body. And I just couldn’t stand it anymore,” explained Max.

“Is there anything I can do to help you feel more like yourself?” asked John, pouring a bowlful of cereal for Max, and placing it on the table next to him.

“I want a binder,” Max blurted out immediately, setting down his pen. John paused. He had no idea what Max was talking about. “Never mind,” said Max rescinding his statement and picking up his pen again. “Forget I said anything,”

“No, no. I’ll admit I’m not very well educated on the matter, which is on me honestly, but I’m open to learning about anything that would help you out,” John said. ”You just have to bring me up to speed,”

Max explained the basics of binders, bringing up a web page to show John a picture and eating his breakfast. John wasn’t sure that he understood completely but he tried his best to listen.

“So, you just need to take a few measurements and you then can order them online?” John asked.

“Yeah. It’s pretty simple,” said Max, turning off his phone and taking another bite of cereal.

“Okay. I think we have a measuring tape somewhere. Sherlock was the last person to have it so he’ll know where it is. I’ll get it to you later,” said John. “I was going to watch some TV. Would you like to join me when you’ve finished your homework?”

“Yeah. I shouldn’t take too long,” said Max as he got back to his homework. John nodded and sat down on the couch, turning on the TV.

Sherlock drifted out the bedroom, wearing his dressing gown. He grabbed a cup and poured in a healthy helping of coffee. He was not a morning person at the best of times and drank a lot of coffee to get by. John smiled at him. “Morning Sweetheart. Sleep well?” asked John. Sherlock grumbled and gulped down his coffee, sitting down on the couch next to John, which made John laugh. “Guess not. By the way, Sherlock, do you know where the measuring tape is? I’m pretty sure you were the last to have it.”

“Yeah. I think it’s in the drawer at my desk,” mumbled Sherlock, stirring his coffee.

John nodded. He went over to the desk and rooted around, looking for the measuring tape. It look wading through all the old pencils, dried up pens, sheets of paper and other miscellaneous things that Sherlock had jammed in there to find it. When he did, he gave it to Max, who was still working.

“Here you go. If you take your measurements, you can tell me them sometime today and we can order it together,” he said. Max took it with a wide, ecstatic grin.

“Thank you!” he exclaimed.

“No problem. Are you nearly done with your homework?” asked John. Max nodded.

“I’m on the last question,” he said, scribbling in an answer. “And I’m done,”

Max sat on the couch between John and Sherlock, who was still grumbling and sipping his coffee. It was a quiet domestic moment that John found heart-warming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on tumblr.  
> [my account](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/inkwell1013)


	6. Chapter 6

Max came into John’s bedroom later that day, at around nine o’clock. John was going over a few emails before bed but stopped when he saw Max come in. Max handed him a scrap of paper with a few numbers scribbled on it. “Here. I took my measurements,” he said.

John took the paper and smiled. “Do you want to help me order your binder?” he asked. Max nodded excitedly. John bought up the gc2b webpage and clicked onto the page where you could buy binders. They looked at the sizing chart and decided that Max would probably need a large based on his measurements.

“You could get one in black, white or grey. Maybe one that’s a bright colour, if you wanted to. I guess that kind would be very obvious though. What colour do you want?” said John. Max paused for a second.

“I’m not sure. I guess a white one would get dirty really quickly, so maybe not that colour. A black or grey one could be cool though. It would look like a tank top or a vest. But it would probably get pretty hot in the summer and it would show through any lighter coloured t-shirts,” rambled Max.

“Maybe nude could be a good fit?” offered John. Max looked confused. “It means skin coloured,” John explained clicking on the photo. There were five people in the picture, each wearing a different coloured binder of varying skin tones.

“You’re closest to No. 3 by my best guess. What do you think?” said John, looking to Max to gauge his response. Max was ecstatic, grinning from ear to ear.

“It looks perfect!” he exclaimed, before turning quiet. “Are you sure it isn’t a bother?” he asked.

“Nah its fine,” said John, typing in his credit card information. “It’ll get here within the next week or two,”

Max was still grinning madly, but nodded in acknowledgement. John turned off his computer. It was getting late. “Anyway, isn’t it past your bedtime Max? It is a school night,” he mentioned.

“I guess it is. I hadn’t noticed. Goodnight,” Max left the room and everyone went to sleep, except Sherlock, who had buried himself in work again.

The next two weeks passed without much issue and Max waited patiently for his parcel to arrive. Every time he got home to find that the package wasn’t there, he seemed dejected and moped for a good hour or two. It crushed John and Sherlock to see him so sad.

Twelve days after they had made the order, on a Friday, a parcel had arrived while Max was at school and John was at work. Sherlock came back from the case he was working to find it on the doorstop and he bought it inside.

He knew what it was immediately. John had told him to expect the parcel after he had ordered it. He didn’t open it. Max would probably want to open it himself after all. So he left it alone on the coffee table and shot John a text.

**The parcel is here. I will give it to Max when he gets back from school. When will you get home? – SH**

He quickly got a text back.

**That’s great! I wish I could be there but I’m stuck at work. I won’t be back until about six. Sorry. – JW**

**That’s fine, I’ll put some pizza in for dinner. – SH**

He turned on the oven, threw some pizza in the oven and went to into his bedroom finish an update for his blog. About fifteen minutes later, Max trailed into the apartment, kicked off his shoes and threw his backpack into his room.

“Hey Max,” called Sherlock. “Parcel came for you earlier,”

“Holy shit! Really?” exclaimed Max, rushing into the room. “Where is it?”

“It’s on the coffee table in the living room. And watch your language young man,” answered Sherlock, as Max ran out of the room, grabbing his parcel.

“Can I try it on?” he asked.

“Well what else would you do with a binder?” snarked Sherlock. “Go for it,”

Max locked his bedroom door and ripped off his hoodie and t-shirt, tearing open the package and taking out the binder. He pulled it over his shoulders but got it stuck, making him curse. Eventually he got in on and put on his t-shirt again. He went to look in the mirror then remembered that he had broken it just a fortnight ago and it had not been replaced yet.

He went into Sherlock’s room. “Can I use your mirror please?” he asked.

“Sure thing,” said Sherlock still typing on his laptop. Max stared at himself and his now flat chest in the mirror. The was something magical about it. About seeing yourself reflected back and looking the way you should look. It was a strange type of elation. He looked right in his own body for the first time in his life.

He covered his mouth with his hand, tearing up. Sherlock balked at him. “Are you okay, Max?” he asked, placing a hand on Max’s shoulder.

“No I’m fine. I’m just… I’m just really happy. Sorry,” he muttered, wiping away his tears.

“It’s okay for you to be happy Max. John and I want you to be happy. You know that, right?” said Sherlock.

“Yeah I do,” said Max.

“Anyway, do you have any homework to do?” asked Sherlock. Max nodded. “Why don’t you get on with that, and we can eat pizza in a bit when John gets home,”

Max set to work on his schoolwork and Sherlock worked on his blog. A little after six, John arrived home from work and Max ran up to greet him.

“Hey John. Look at me. The binder makes my chest so flat!” he beamed. “Don’t I look great?”

“Yeah you do. You look awesome!” John said supportively. “Do you want to get to eating that pizza?”

“Yes!” Max exclaimed.

“Go on then son,” said John, with a smile before realising what he had done. Max hadn’t noticed dashing into the kitchen where Sherlock was plating up some pizza. When did he start thinking of Max as his child? He shook the thought out of his head and went to eat some dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on tumblr.  
> [my account](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/inkwell1013)


	7. Chapter 7

It was a Saturday afternoon and John was doing laundry. He was putting on a load when he realized something. Max had bought a binbag full of clothes with him but he never seemed to wear many of them. John was always washing the same three t-shirts, jeans and hoodies. Max never seemed to wear much else. John resolved to ask him about it later.

John was helping Max with his chemistry homework later that day when he bought it up. “You don’t seem to wear many of your clothes. Why is that?” he asked.

“I don’t like them. They’re all pretty feminine – you know dresses and blouses and stuff. They make me feel pretty dysphoric,” Max explained. “So I don’t wear them,”

He scribbled in a few sentences of answers and John looked at him sympathetically. “Do you want to go shopping with me tomorrow? We could get you some new clothes if you wanted,” he offered.

Max nodded. “Yeah, that would be great,”

The next morning, when Max and John were all getting ready to go, John got a call from his Dad. He greeted him cheerfully and was silenced almost immediately. John was informed that his Mother had had a minor fall and was hospitalised. He hung up and broke the news to Max.

“Sorry buddy. I’ve have to go to the hospital. My Mums had an accident. It’s nothing serious but I’ve have to go see her. We might have to reschedule our shopping trip for another day,” he explained. Max was dejected.

“I could take him,” interrupted Sherlock, looking up from his computer.

John raised an eyebrow. “You sure Sherlock? I thought you hated the shopping centre,”

That was true. Sherlock despised it there. It was loud and there were too many people. It overloaded his mind with information whenever he tried to go there. There were too many smells and bright lights and he didn’t like it. But he would suffer through it for Max.

“I’ll be fine. Go see your Mum,” said Sherlock. John thanked him and left immediately, only stopping to fetch his umbrella. Max and Sherlock were alone in the apartment, Max still wearing his trainers and coat. Clearing his throat, Sherlock put on his shoes and threw on his trench coat. It occurred to him that he had never actually spent time alone with Max. He resolved then to change that.

The two left the apartment and boarded the bus. It was a sort of awkward trip and they didn’t talk much. When the bus pulled up to the shopping centre, they disembarked and made their way inside. Sherlock was immediately reminded of everything he hated about the shopping centre.

There were dozens of people milling about. Small children ran underneath his feet, screaming loudly. He faintly wondered where their parents were. The overhead lights were blindingly bright. He looked to Max and saw that he was clearly excited.

“Have you ever been to a shopping centre?” asked Sherlock as they walked down the central atrium. Max shook his head.

“No. I got most of my stuff from charity shops and Poundland. My parents didn’t really like spending a lot of money on me.” said Max as his eyes whipped around the room. “It’s not like they didn’t have the money though. They just didn’t like me much,”

Sherlock pushed further. “Why didn’t your parents like you?”

“They thought I was a freak. And they told me that God would punish me for my sins. “There must be something wrong with you if you want to be a boy” All that stuff. Classic religious transphobes really,” said Max, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Sherlock grunted noncommittally, trying to recall the layout of the building and the location of the clothes store he and John usually shopped at. They made their way there and went inside. Hung upon the racks and stacked on the shelves were dozens of sets of clothes. The lights were even brighter inside. Immediately through the doors was the men’s section. Sherlock decided that Max was a bit too small for adult sizes and would need children’s clothes for a few more years. He was a very slight person after all.

It was then that Sherlock realised he had deleted the layout of the shop from his mind palace. He had vehemently refused to go to the store for so long that he had decided it was unnecessary information. Kicking himself, he approached a young woman who was stocking shelves as Max trailed behind him.

“Excuse me Miss, but can you point me to the children’s section please,” he said, forcing himself to make eye contact. She smiled at him.

“Of course, it’s just over there,” she said, pointing it out. “Are you taking your daughter shopping? That’s so sweet! I’m sure your wife will be pleased when you get home.” She laughed and was met with silence.

Max cringed at being called Sherlock’s daughter and Sherlock was irritated at the woman’s comment. She probably hadn’t meant anything by it but he was still annoyed at her assumption.

“I’m sure my _husband_ will be happy with the results of our shopping trip. If you are quite finished, I will be taking my _son_ to look at some clothes. Thank you very much for your help,” he gritted out, taking Max’s hand and leaving.

“Sorry about that Max,” he said. Max frowned but didn’t say anything. “Anyway, let’s get you some new clothes,” Sherlock continued.

Max picked out a few clothes that he liked. Sherlock analysed his selection and realised that he tended to prefer simplicity and comfort over everything else. He used this knowledge to recommend a few other options. At the end of the trip, they had two bags of clothes. Once they were purchased, they left the store at about midday.

After this, Sherlock and Max decided to stop in a small café for lunch. Sherlock ordered a black coffee and Max chose to have a hot chocolate. Both of them had a sandwich as well. They minded their own business, chatting about nothing much.

Once they finished their drinks, they went to have a wander around the building. Max stopped dead in his tracks, pulling at the sleeve of Sherlocks shirt. “Excuse me but I need to go to the bathroom,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“The toilet is just over there,” said Sherlock, pointing it out to Max. “I’ll wait for you here.” Max was still nervous.

“Ummm… Will you come with me? I kinda don’t want to go by myself,” said Max awkwardly. Sherlock didn’t understand his apprehension at first. Then it clicked in his mind. Max was too scared to go by himself. It had never occurred to him that using a public bathroom might be difficult for trans people. Why should that be an issue for him though? It didn’t make sense.

He nodded, making a mental note to research the topic further at some point. Max was still embarrassed and stared down at the floor. Sherlock didn’t know what to do at first. Awkwardly, he reached out to hold Max’s hand. When Max didn’t take his hand a first, Sherlock went to retract the gesture. However, Max did take it, making Sherlock smile a little.

They made their way to the bathroom and went in. Max locked himself in a stall while Sherlock loitered by the hand dryers, checking the comments of his blog and responding to a handful of e-mails.

After making sure that Max washed his hands, they went to have one final wander around. There was a store selling video games, which Max found particularly entrancing. Sherlock mentioned that he still had an old DS from when he was a teenager, and watched in confusion as Max’s face lit up.

“If you want to pick up a game or two, I could probably find it for you,” he offered. Max excitedly looked around the second hand shelf, choosing a few games. They bought them and went to catch the bus home.

Once they got back, Sherlock found his old DS in a cardboard box in the loft. He handed it to Max, who immediately went to play some games. Sherlock went to do some research into trans struggles. What he found was disturbing to say the least. He resolved to talk to John about it when he got home.

About half an hour later, John stumbled through the front door. Max greeted him from the couch where he was sitting.

“What are you playing?” asked John, sitting next to him.

“It’s an old Pokémon game. Sherlock bought it for me. It’s pretty cool,” said Max, still playing the game while he spoke. “How’s your Mum?”

“She’s alright. It was only a small break. I think it was more the shock than anything,” he laughed. “She’s getting to the stage in her life when even minor falls can be pretty dangerous though, so she’s got to be more careful. Anyway, did you manage to find the clothes you were looking for in the shop?”

“Yeah. Sherlock was a big help. Do you wanna see what I got?” he offered.

“That sounds like a good idea,”

Max beamed and went to fetch the bag of clothes to show to John. This made John smile.

A few hours later, once Max had showed of his haul and put it away with the assistance of Sherlock, they ate dinner together and Max was sent to bed. That was when Sherlock brought up the products of his research.

“I’m worried about Max,” he admitted. “I’ve been doing some research and the statistics are quite alarming. I mean, trans youth are at higher risk for bullying, abuse, violence, suicidal attempts. Everything really. I don’t want him to be hurt for being who he is and I don’t want him to hurt himself. I’m not sure what we can do.” He bowed his head in defeat, sitting down next to John.

“Sherlock, we can’t help the way other people act. What we can control is the way we act and how we treat Max. We just need to accept him for he is and help him when he needs us to,” said John supportively, wrapping an arm around Sherlocks shoulder.

“I suppose you’re right,” muttered Sherlock.

John stood up abruptly. “Do you want some tea?” he asked.

“God yeah,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on tumblr.  
> [my account](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/inkwell1013)


	8. Chapter 8

Things had been going well between the three in the past few months. Apart from a minor incident involving a bully and a bathroom, Max was pretty happy at school. Everything was good. They were happy.

Then everything came crashing down around them with a single phone call.

John was responding to a few emails and Sherlock was working on yet another perplexing case. Max was sat between them, playing Pokémon. The landline rang. John asked Max to pick up the phone and he happily obliged.

“Hello. Who’s this?” he asked, picking up the phone.

He hadn’t expected to hear the voice of his social worker on the other end. “Charlotte, is that you? Can you put John or Sherlock on the phone for me?” Max scowled at hearing his deadname but gritted out an agreement.

“Hey John. Social worker’s on the phone. She wants to speak to you,” he called across the room. John was a little surprised but set his laptop on the table and took the phone from Max.

“Is there something wrong?” asked John as he took the phone from Max, who wandered away, sitting next to Sherlock on the couch.

“It’s about Charlotte,” responded the social worker quickly.

“Max,” John interjected. “His name is Max,”

“Oh yes, pardon me. My mistake. We’ve recently gotten note of a possible kinship placement for him,” explained the social worker. “The maternal grandmother is attempting to gain custody. I thought you should know,”

John was speechless. He couldn’t fathom the idea of losing Max. The boy had already become an integral part of their lives. He looked to see Max on the couch, showing his game to Sherlock, who was staring at it in confusion and surprise, making John smile. He thought of Max as their child and had done so for some time.

“Excuse me. Are you still on the line?” asked the social worker, snapping him out of his stupor.

“Yes sorry. I’ll tell him. Thank you,” he said, finishing off the conversation and hanging up. He sighed. What was he going to do? How would he break the news to the boy? What could he say?

“Is everything okay?” asked Max.

He just didn’t know what to say. “Are you close to your grandmother on your mother’s side?” he eventually asked.

“Not really. I mean, I stayed with her a few times and stuff. She seems cool enough I guess. Why do you wanna know?” retorted Max suspiciously.

“She wants you to stay with her,” said John, breaking the news as quickly as he could. He looked to gauge Max’s reaction. The boy’s face twisted from confusion to sorrow then finally worry.

“Are you sure? I didn’t think that she’d want me,” he muttered.

“She does. You’re her grandson after all,” said John. Max was still quiet. He looked to see that Sherlock had stopped typing at his laptop, speechless. He understood how he felt.

Later that week, Max’s social worker came to pick him up, along with his grandmother. She was a sweet looking old woman. The kind who would knit her friends sweaters for Christmas and bake cookies on rainy days.

John handed Max the duffle bag full of his clothes. He had rustled up the bag from the loft after staunchly refusing to let Max put his things in a binbag, as he had when he first arrived. There wasn’t much else for him to carry; just his school stuff and the DS Sherlock had given him, which could all fit in his backpack. He had tried to return the DS but Sherlock declined, saying that he wouldn’t use it anyway.

Max and his social worker went to put his things in the car while his grandmother hung behind a second. “Thank you boys,” she said. “You did a good job looking after my granddaughter,”

John looked at her incredulously. “He’s your grandson,” he interjected. “Remember?”

“Oh yes. My apologies. That’ll take a bit of getting used to won’t it? Anyway, my grandson has been doing much better since he’s been staying with you two. I never realized how my daughter and her husband treated him. I suppose I did a bad job raising her didn’t I? Hopefully I’ll do better this time. Now listen to me, I’m rambling again. Thank you. You’re both good men,” she concluded.

John smiled at the compliment and waved her goodbye. He and Sherlock were left alone in the apartment. That was when the loneliness kicked in. It was a certain bitterness. A loss.

The flat was too quiet now. John found himself missing the sight of the boy. He kept expecting to see him floating around the kitchen, eating breakfast cereal, or sitting on the couch, playing his game. Now there was nothing there.

He also felt guilt. Max was going to live with a woman who loved him and wanted him to be happy. He should be supportive. That was the goal after all. Reunification. But a small selfish art of his brain wanted to keep Max to himself.

He wanted those rainy days. He wanted those bitter disagreements. He wanted those parent’s evenings and first crushes and movie nights.

He wanted it all.

But he couldn’t have it.

Max would be happy and that’s all that really mattered in the end. John could still let himself be sad though. No-one could take the mourning of that loss away from him. Sherlock seemed to notice his mood and was doing his best to help. He made him a cup of tea and offered to order them Thai. John agreed and they decided to watch a film together to take their mind off it.

The film was pretty good but John kept getting distracted. Every time there was a funny line, he expected to hear Max laughing. He kept anticipating a quip or a joke that never came. However, he didn’t want to admit it to Sherlock for fear of judgement.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I miss him too John,” he admitted. “He was here for so long, it’s only natural,”

“Yeah. I hope he’ll be happy living with her,”

“I do too,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends the Max arc. I hope you all enjoyed!
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr.  
> [my account](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/inkwell1013)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how this chapter got so long compared to all the others. I hope you enjoy! And remember, wear a mask and stay safe. Also, sorry this chapter took so long, I kinda fell down a rabbit hole of writing an entire other fanfiction just for fun and sort of forgot about this one. My bad.
> 
> Potential triggers for physical abuse and neglect. Nothing is shown on screen but if that is a potential trigger for you, you might want to proceed with caution.

It had been three weeks since Max left to stay with his Grandmother. John still missed him of course, but the pain was duller now. Sherlock was being uncharacteristically caring and sweet, making sure that John was doing okay. He had even tried to make John lunch a few times, which had been a semi-disastrous affair. Sherlock was an atrocious cook and the only person who John knew who had managed to burn spaghetti. They had agreed that John would teach him how to cook to take his mind of things.

They had actually been cooking dinner on a Sunday night when they got the call. John was demonstrating how to make French toast, which Sherlock was entranced by. It really wasn’t a difficult recipe, but Sherlock was a beginner and found the most basic recipes difficult. Therefore, he saw the making of every complex dish as a mythical experience.

The phone started ringing in the other room. “Would you fetch the landline for me?” said John. “I would, it’s just my hands are covered in egg,”

“Sure,”

Sherlock walked out to the lounge and picked the phone from its cradle. Clicking the green button, he accepted the call. “Who’s this?”

“Samuel Dodson. I’m a social worker calling about a placement-“

“Wait a second. I’m just going to put you on speaker.” He went back into the kitchen and got John’s attention, who was taking the French toast out the pan. Turning the phone onto voicemail, he mouthed _it’s a social worker_ to John and sat down at the kitchen table.

“Are you still on the line?” asked the man. John wiped his hands down with a paper towel and came to sit with Sherlock.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” said Sherlock. “Just putting you on speaker so my husband can be involved in the conversation,”

“It’s fine. I have a placement for you; she’s a seventeen year old girl.” He sighed. “I know that you two are new to fostering and I’m not going to lie, it will be a difficult placement. But there really aren’t many places in her school zone that will take her. I really want her to graduate on time and not fall behind, so I’m sort of desperate,”

John looked to Sherlock, who nodded. “That’s fine with us,” said John. “We’d be happy to have her,”

“Okay. We’re about an hour away, so we’ll see you at about nine,” said the man, tiredly. “Thank you. I’ll bring her file with me.”

“What’s her name?” asked Sherlock suddenly. “That seems like the kind of thing we should know before we meet her,”

“Isabella Stewart,”

They finished up the call and hung up. Eating their French toast, they had a quick conversation about the placement, what they could do to make her more comfortable. They didn’t really know much about her other than her age and her name. They knew nothing of her interests or hobbies or even her past. Her file would likely contain a few details, but they would have to wait until she wanted to talk to them for the full picture.

“Anyway, I’m going to put fresh sheets on the bed in the kiddo’s room. Will you give me a hand?”

“Sure.”

***

Izzy resisted the urge to kick the back of the seat in front of her. Mr Dodson was being a twat again but hey, that wasn’t anything new. He was treating her like she was still ten years old. She hated him but it wasn’t like she had much choice in who her social worker was.

“Isabella, are you listening to me?”

She hadn’t even realized he was speaking. The guy just had such a dull voice. It just made her want to ignore him.

“Please try to make this placement work,” sighed Mr Dodson. “Mr Watson and Mr Holmes are the only people left in your school zone who are willing to take you. Just try to be nice to them and behave so you can graduate on time. Their last placement was successful according to Miss Amelia Stone and they’re good men.”

Izzy grumbled. She had heard the whole _they’re good men_ thing before. It was never true. She agreed though. It would only be for a couple of months anyway, until she was old enough to move out. If she just behaved, they would probably leave her alone anyway. Her ears picked upon a detail she found interesting though. _Men._ Why would two men foster a child together? Were they roommates or cousins or something?

It wasn’t that she hated men, she just wasn’t very comfortable with them. In her experience, they were always the first one to get aggressive. She had just had more bad experiences with men and didn’t want to be stuck in a flat with two of them.

**You’re going to be in danger…**

**_Shut up._ **

The car pulled up to the flat. Izzy undid her seatbelt and fetched the trash bag from the boot of Mr Dodson’s car, while he fetched her file from his briefcase. She didn’t have much in the way of clothes so the bag was pretty light. She stood on the door step next to her social worker and he knocked on the door. The door creaked open and a man was revealed. Tall, dark haired and skinny. He didn’t look very strong. The idea comforted her; she could probably take him in a fight.

“Afternoon Mr Dodson. Miss Stewart,” he said, his voice level and calm. “Why don’t you two come in? Have a cup of tea or something?”

“I think I will,” said Mr Dodson. “It was a long drive here actually.”

Izzy couldn’t help but frown. She didn’t want to be around him for any longer than he had to but decided to keep her mouth shut. The tall man stepped aside and let them inside. “John!” he called. “They’re here.”

“Oh good,” came the voice from the kitchen. A moment later, the man came into view, wiping his hands dry on a tea towel. He was shorter than his companion but had a much stockier build and seemed to be much tougher looking.

**He’s the one you have to watch out for… He’ll hurt you.**

**_We don’t know that._ **

“I’m going to make some tea for our guests,” said Sherlock. “Do you want some?”

“If you don’t mind. Same as usual please,” replied John. Nodding, Sherlock went into the kitchen and John sat down on the couch with the other two. “So Isabella –“

“Izzy,” she corrected.

**Why would you say that? He’ll get mad at you.**

She snuck a look at his face. He smiled gently.

**_He doesn’t seem angry._ **

**He’s just trying to lull you into a false sense of security.**

**_You’re wrong._ **

“So Izzy, do you have any questions for Sherlock and me?”

Could she actually ask questions? There was probably a line, but she didn’t know where it was. She steadied herself and spoke. “Are you two cousins or something?” she asked.

She heard laughter from the other room and John called out to the other man. “Honey, don’t laugh. It’s a valid question.” He turned back to Izzy. “And no. We’re married actually. Four years next month.”

“Congratulations,” interjected Mr Dodson.

“But you have different last names,” said Izzy in surprise.

“Neither of us felt the need to change our last names, so we didn’t,” explained Sherlock, handing out tea to everyone. Izzy was surprised that he had made her some; she didn’t ask for any, mostly because she didn’t like tea. It was disgusting, bland, leaf water. She had no idea why people liked it. Still, everyone else was drinking it, so she would comply.

**Just be quiet and keep your head down.**

“Any other questions?” asked John. Izzy thought for a second, sipping her tea.

“What jobs do you have?” she responded. “Sorry if that’s a rude question.”

“It’s fine. I’m a general practitioner at a nearby hospital, but before that, I was an army doctor,”

“Thank you for your service,” said Mr Dodson.

**He was in the army. Remember what happened with Mr Carkwright? He was in the army…**

**_Mr Carkwright was always an asshole. Mr Watson seems nice._ **

**Seems nice?**

**_He does!_ **

**But how can you be sure?**

**_I can’t…_ **

Sherlock cleared his throat and spoke up. “And I work as a personal investigator with Scotland Yard. I handle difficult cases for them when they’re out of their depth. It’s all rather boring really. Not interesting at all.”

Izzy had the feeling that he was hiding something from her. She decided to look him up later on the school computers. He had an unusual name, so it wouldn’t be too difficult to find out more about him.

Izzy jumped when Mr Dodson’s phone rang. He accepted the call and announced that he would have to leave. He said goodbye and left after shaking both men’s hands, though not before handing John her file. She hated that thing, it was full of private things she didn’t want people to read about.

“Is there anything else you want to know?” asked John, setting the file down on the coffee table.

“I have one more question… What rules are there here?” She needed to know so she didn’t break them. Stay quiet and follow the rules.

John looked to Sherlock for a second. “There aren’t many,” said Sherlock. “Curfew is 10pm unless otherwise stated. We also want you to do your best in school too and try to get enough sleep.”

John chuckled. “You’re one to talk.”

“Hey, I slept six hours last night. That’s more than usual!” defended Sherlock.

“That’s still not enough dear. You need to get at least eight hours a night.”

“Whatever. I sleep enough for me and that’s that. Also, if you want to stay with your friends or visit them, you have to introduce them to us first and give us either their phone number or their parent’s number. Is that everything John?”

“I think so… One last thing, if you ever have any worries or issues, we expect you to come to one of us for help. Is that okay?”

Izzy nodded, even though she had no intention to do that. Her problems were none of their business. “That’s good,” continued John. “It’s getting late, so why don’t you get settled in for the night? Your room is just down the hallway.”

So, they weren’t going to feed her on her first day. Whatever. She hadn’t eaten all day, but that was fine. She could last until tomorrow morning. It’s not like she expected anything anyway; it was late after all. It would just be inconvenient for them.

**But what if they don’t give you anything tomorrow morning?**

**_Then I’ll just eat at school. I get free lunch there._ **

She stood up and picked up her bag about to leave, when Sherlock spoke up.

“Izzy,” he said sharply. Izzy freezes, about to revert to fight or flight, when Sherlock continues. “When did you last eat?”

Izzy turned around, trying to read their expressions. What do they want her to say? Eventually, she decided to be honest, repercussions be damned. “Not since yesterday. Maybe twenty hours ago.”

John’s face fell into a sympathetic frown though Sherlock’s stayed stony and unmoving. It was strangely unnerving. “You must be hungry. How about cereal for dinner?” suggests John.

“I could eat some cereal,” states Sherlock, standing up and getting some bowls from the cupboard. “Want some Shreddies John?” said Sherlock, already pouring both of them a bowl. When John nodded, Sherlock handed him the ready bowl.

“Have a rummage around,” offered John going into the living room. “Help yourself to what you want.”

She looked through the cupboard, eventually finding a box of Coco pops. “I didn’t take you for the kind of guy to like kids cereal,” she teased, before she can even stop herself. Expecting an angry retort, she is surprised when John frowns slightly but covers it up with a smile.

“Coco pops were our last foster son’s favorite. I forgot we still had that box. Have some if you want.”

Izzy decides against it. For some reason, the cereal feels special. Like she shouldn’t take it. She shoved it back into the cupboard and goes to help herself to some Shreddies instead. She scowled at the thought intruding in her mind.

**They’re probably still hung up on the last kid. He’ll always be the golden boy. You’re just the replacement for their perfect foster son that they lost.**

**_Why won’t you leave me alone?_ **

**Even if you hate me, you have to admit, you need me. I keep you safe.**

And as much as she hates this voice, she knows it’s right. Pouring in some milk and grabbing a spoon from the drawer she goes to join the other two in the living room. Sherlock was sat cross legged on the sofa, working on something on the laptop balanced on his lap, ignoring his cereal completely.

“Sherlock, your cereal is going to go soggy,” admonished John

Sherlock ignored him. “I just got an email from Gavin.”

“You mean Greg?

“Whatever. Looks like a complicated case. A locked room mystery. A woman was found dead in a locked public bathroom stall. Gunshot to the back of the head, likely not suicide considering the lack of any previously known mental health issues. The strange thing is that no one went in or out that bathroom that day other than her.”

“Sounds interesting.”

Izzy froze. What the actual fuck? How were they so nonchalant about this? It was a real person, a life that had been lost and they were talking about it like it was nothing. How desensitized were they? If they were this desensitized to death, what if they were desensitized to violence too? She shuddered to think.

Sherlock typed something on his computer and spoke again. “He wants me to take a look at the evidence, see if there’s anything they missed. So I’ll be going early tomorrow morning. You’ll have to drop Izzy off at school.”

“Yeah I can do that. I’ll let my assistant know that I’ll be late,” replied John. “Now eat your cereal.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but eventually picked up his spoon and ate a few spoonsful of cereal. Izzy spoke up. “You don’t have to drop me off. I can catch a bus.” She had been catching a bus to school since she was eleven. She didn’t see a reason for that to change. There was no reason for her to make him late.

“I have to change the emergency contact information on your file,” insisted John. “Might as well drop you off while I’m at it.”

Izzy felt no reason to argue. Even if she was uncomfortable being alone with a man, she knew they were trying to be nice. She could handle a twenty minute drive. It would be fine, she decided, finishing up her cereal and depositing it in the sink, before saying goodnight.

She opened the door to the room she would be sleeping in. It was nice actually, small but neat. The sheets were a soft blue and white checkers. As well as the bed, there was a small desk and a wardrobe. Izzy dumped the trash bag on the floor next to the wardrobe; she would unpack later.

As she shut the door, she realized that there was a lock on her door. Strangely, it made her feel more secure. It probably wouldn’t stay there long, all things considered, but while she had it she would put it to use. Sliding the lock closed, she lay down in the bed.

‘ _When had she gotten so tired?_ ’ she wondered, closing her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on tumblr.  
> [my account](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/inkwell1013)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for nightmare about finding a dead body and panic attacks. Also, Izzy has experienced a lot of physical abuse in her past, which still effects her now. This chapter might be hard to read for someone who's been through that, so proceed carefully.
> 
> Remember, wear a mask and stay safe. Hydrate. Eat something. Sleep more, or less. Look after yourself. Your health and wellbeing are very important. Happy reading! <3

_“Mum. Are you home? Why was the door unlocked?” calls Izzy into the quiet apartment. “I thought you were working tonight.”_

_She took of her shoes, placing them by the door. Her mother hadn’t responded, which was weird. She was probably just listening to some music with her earphones or something._

_She called again. “Mum where are you?”_

_Cracking open the door to their tiny kitchen, she jumped back in surprise when she saw her mother lying on the floor unconscious. She crouched next to her, giving her a shake. “Mum! Wake up. Why aren’t you waking up? Please don’t leave me!”_

_When did she start crying? The tears wouldn’t stop coming. A part of her knows that she should do something. Call an ambulance. But she can’t stop the tears. Stumbling to her feet, she goes to pick up the landline from the kitchen table._

_She dials 999 into the keypad and waits for it to dial. She could barely breathe. Why was this happening? Why to her?_

Izzy woke up in a cold sweat, screaming. It was like her entire body was on fire. Her lungs were unable to inhale and her heart was beating so fast she felt as if it might explode out of her chest. She was shaking all over.

**_I’m going to die._ **

**_I’m going to die._ **

**_I’m going to die._ **

**_My heart is going to explode._ **

**_I can’t breathe._ **

**_John and Sherlock are going to beat me for this._ **

She vaguely noticed that someone was banging at her door. She had tried so hard to be good but now she had woken them up. They would be so angry. She was so completely fucked.

John was startled awake by screaming. He turned over to check on Sherlock, who was sound asleep as always. The nuclear apocalypse could occur and he would still be able to sleep through it all. Probably something to do with the way he stays up with cases until 3am every night, only falling into bed when he’s completely exhausted.

Being woken up by a loud noise at the crack of the dawn reminded him of the time Max woke them up by smashing his mirror. John is strangely fond of the memory. It was the first moment that Max really opened up to him and paved the way to the rest of their relationship.

He didn’t have time to think about this he decided - dragging himself out of bed and rushing to investigate. The screaming had died down now. He knocked on Izzy’s door. “Izzy, are you okay?” he asked. “I heard screaming.” There was no response to his question, which worried him. Anything could have happened to her.

What if she had knocked herself unconscious? Or had a seizure? Or had seriously injured herself? All the possibilities were flooding his brain.

He knocked again, louder this time. “Izzy are you safe? If you don’t respond, I’m gonna have to force my way in.”

Still nothing.

He pushed the door handle down and tried to shove open the door, but it didn’t budge a bit. She had probably locked the door from the inside. Soft crying was coming from the room. “Izzy, can you unlock the door for me please? I just want to make sure you’re okay,” he begged.

Just as John was about to try to force down the door, the lock clicked open. He pushed the door open as quietly as possible, not wanting to startle her any further. Izzy was sat on the crumpled bedsheets, knees to her chest, pressed as far up against the wall as she could be. Her breathing was coming in gasps.

The way she shook as he approached broke his heart. “Please don’t. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. Just don’t hurt me,” she implored, tripping over her words. “Please.”

“Izzy. It’s okay. You’re safe here. I’m not going to hurt you.”

 **Yet…** her brain corrects. **He’s not going to hurt you yet.**

John reached out to place a hand on her shoulder, immediately regretting it when she started weeping even harder, begging for him not to touch her. He stepped back, raising his hands into the air.

“If you don’t want me to touch you, that’s fine,” he said, turning around the desk chair and sitting down. “You need take some deep breaths though. Can you do that for me?”

Izzy nodded through her tears.

“In for four, hold for five and out for six. Give it a go,” he offered. Izzy inhaled slowly, her breathing steadying somewhat.

“Good job. You’re doing so well. Is there anything I can get you?” he asked.

Izzy paused for a second. “Can I have a glass of water please?” she asked in a quiet, nervous voice.

“Of course. I’ll just be in the kitchen if you need me,” he said gently, standing up and leaving the room. He came back a few minutes later with a full glass, which he handed over. She took a sip.

There was a long empty silence.

“Thank you…” she murmured. John isn’t sure if she’s thanking him for the water, for his help or for something else entirely. Either way, his response is the same.

“It’s totally fine. How are you doing?” he asked.

“Better. But not great,” said Izzy, sticking to short simple sentences.

**_The less I say, the less likely I am to fuck up._ **

Her heart was still beating out her chest but at least she could breathe now. John glanced at his watch. “Sorry, but I’ve just got to do something quickly. Is it okay if I leave for a little bit? Will you be alright alone?” Izzy nodded in response.

“I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” he added. She numbly watched him leave. Then the voice comes back.

**He’s not going to want you any more now he knows what’s wrong with you.**

**_That’s not true. He wouldn’t do that._ **

**You don’t even know him that well. Just you wait. He’ll send you packing as soon as he possibly can. He’s probably calling Mr Dodson right now.**

**_You’re wrong._ **

**I’m not.**

**_Shut up. Shut up. Shut up._ **

Her breathing quickened again. Her head span, dizziness and nausea setting in. Her heart was palpitating, beating uncontrollably fast. **_No. No. No. Not again._**

John shook Sherlock awake. The man grumbled and rolled over, tangling himself up in his sheets. “Fuck off John. I‘m trying to sleep,” he mumbled.

“Sherlock, it’s seven am. You’re supposed to be meeting with Scotland Yard in half an hour and it’s a twenty minute cab drive to the crime scene. You need to get up and get ready, or you’ll be late.”

“I hate you right now,” bemoaned Sherlock, dragging himself out of bed.

“I know sweetheart, I know. Make sure you put on something clean and don’t wear that shirt you’ve been wearing for the last three days.” Sherlock rolled his eyes but nodded with a faint grin.

John left Sherlock to get dressed and went to quickly put on a pot of coffee. Sherlock always has a hearty cup in the mornings because he’s constantly tired. It’s probably something to do with how he sleeps an average of four hours a night, sometimes less.

Sherlock drifted into the kitchen, yawning. He looked absolutely disheveled, with messy hair and bags under his eyes. At least he’s wearing a clean shirt, John thought distantly, while handing him the mug of coffee he had made. Sherlock gulped it down, barely registering how burningly hot it was.

“Gale is being so annoying, making me come to a crime scene at the crack of dawn,” complained Sherlock. “I can’t believe him.”

“ _Greg_ isn’t being totally unreasonable,” corrected John. “Not everyone is semi-nocturnal like you dear.”

Sherlock handed the mug back for a refill wordlessly. John filled it back up and kept speaking. “I think Izzy had a panic attack this morning. I’m not a hundred percent sure but it certainly seemed like one.”

“Is that why you were up so early?” asked Sherlock.

“Yeah, she woke me up with her screaming. You slept right through it, like you always do. ” He handed over the mug and snatched up the hairbrush from the table, going to attack the knots in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock always kicks up a fuss when John tries to brush his hair; he only allows it when John gives him coffee first.

The brush caught on a particularly bad tangle, making Sherlock hiss in pain. “Mother fucker. That really hurts,” he cried.

“I wouldn’t have to do this if you decided to actually take care of it. You know that your hair is always a problem when you don’t brush it for a few days,” he admonished.

“Whatever.”

“Sometimes I think you are doing this deliberately so I have to brush your hair for you.”

He looked to see Sherlock’s reaction. The man frozen completely still, his face bright red. “That’s preposterous. Why would I do that?”

“Maybe because you like the physical affection. I remember I used to love it when my mum did my hair because it was so relaxing. It’s probably the same for you. Oxytocin and stuff.” John brushed out the tangle, smoothing it out carefully.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s okay to like affection from me,” reassured John. “I am your husband after all.”

Sherlock grumbled a bit but didn’t say anything more. Once John was finished brushing his hair, Sherlock took one last mouthful of coffee before going to leave.

“I’ve got to go. Make sure Izzy’s okay before you take her to school. Anxiety doesn’t usually go away immediately,” he warned. “She might take a while to come down properly.”

“Will do. Now get going or you’ll be late to the crime scene. Don’t want you to be in trouble with Greg again,” said John.

Sherlock waved goodbye and slammed the door shut a little harder than was necessary. John went to go check on Izzy. He was shocked to find her crumpled even further into the corner of the bed, hyperventilating, hand clasped over her mouth.

John went immediately went to rest a comforting hand on her shoulder, but stopped himself. He knew from earlier that Izzy didn’t like being touched when she was in this state. It was possible that she didn’t like being touched at any time, but John would ask her about it later.

“Izzy, can you breathe for me? Just like we did before. Can you do that?” John asked. Izzy was shaking so much more than she had before. She shook her head wildly.

“I’m going to throw up,” she warned. John quickly grabbed the bin from next to her bed, handing it to Izzy, just before she emptied her stomach out. Not much came out, and eventually she ended up just retching into the bin.

John resisted the urge to pat her on the back. This is so much worse than before. He wished that he never left her when she was like this. “Try and breathe for me Izzy. I know this is scary, but it’s just another panic attack. You’re going to be fine.” Izzy couldn’t stop weeping.

“We’re going to try a grounding technique, is that okay?” he asked.

She nodded distantly.

“Can you name me four things you can see right now?”

Izzy looked blearily around the room. “There’s a lamp on the desk,” she stammered. “And a tree outside. And… Um…”

“It’s okay,” he reassured. “Take your time.”

She took a shaky breath. “A desk. It’s nice. And a wardrobe too.”

“Great job. Just keep breathing. This will all pass soon.”

And it does. Just like a storm that arrives and leaves a trail destruction in its wake, it does leave eventually. Sure, the destruction is still there, but at least the rain has stopped and the wind has slowed. Now the cleanup can begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on tumblr.  
> [my account](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/inkwell1013)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long for this update. School is taking up so much time - I wish it was summer again. I hope everyone's having a good week and staying safe. Wear a mask and all that.
> 
> Trigger warning for a bunch of stuff including past physical abuse (mentioned but not depicted), after effects of a panic attacks, past emotional abuse, combat PTSD and alcoholism (mentioned in a flashback).
> 
> Basically, Izzy has been through a lot of stuff in her life, which deeply effects her even now. If you feel that these topic may trigger you, tread with caution.
> 
> Happy reading.

They were kicking her out. Izzy knew they were going to. She had heard what they were saying through the walls. The details were fuzzy because she was too deep in her panic attack to quite hear but she got the gist through the snippets that she heard.

“Being so annoying.”

“Totally unreasonable.”

“Woke me up with her screaming.”

“Mother fucker.”

“Take care of it.”

“Doing this deliberately.”

She hadn’t meant to do it. She couldn’t control whatever this was.

There was a little bit of the conversation that was too quiet to hear followed by the slamming of a door. Her anxiety was racing. This was so much worse than before. They were going to kick her out. And she would have nowhere to go.

She was a little surprised for John to come back in and guide her through whatever this was, even suggesting something called a grounding technique.

It was weird. He should have been furious but didn’t seem angry at all. In fact, his face was a perfect picture of calm as he sat across from her on her desk chair. It was strange how John knew exactly what to do.

He was close - almost uncomfortably so - but it felt like there was an ocean of distance between them.

They had sat together in comparative silence for a little while – until she could breathe properly and felt calmer. “Do you mind if I go get dressed for work?” he asked gently. “You need to get ready too.”

“Yeah, I’m feeling better now,” she responded. John nodded and went to get himself ready. Izzy went to get ready too, throwing on some semi clean clothes and trying her best to drag her hairbrush through her hair. Might as well look goodish if she would have to go to a new placement again.

One day this time. Not even 24 hours. This was a new low. She couldn’t even last one whole day without fucking it all up.

**You’re such a useless piece of shit.**

**You can’t do anything right.**

**They don’t deserve to deal with this stuff. They were so good to you.**

**_I know that… At least he hasn’t done anything yet._ **

**There’s still time for him to decide to. Mr Dodson won’t arrive for at least half an hour, maybe more. Now you’re alone with him. Who knows what he might do?**

She shook her head of the thought. Even thinking about it was making her feel anxious. Throwing yesterday’s clothes and her brush, which she faintly realized was missing a few bristles, in her binbag, Izzy was distantly glad that she didn’t bother unpacking. Gives her less work to do now.

She took one last look around the small room she had slept in, quickly neatening up the sheets and tucking in the desk chair. John would probably be pissed if she left it untidy. She straightened out her hoodie picked up the binbag.

Poignant, since everything she owned was garbage to them. It was almost humiliating, the way they would hand her a binbag at the end of every placement, intended to be enough to fit everything she owned. She had gotten used to it after a couple of times though. It didn’t bother her anymore.

Or at least she told herself that.

She wandered out into the main living area. Though she hadn’t picked up on it when she had first arrived, the place was sort of a mess. It was by no means unhygienic or dirty, but it was cluttered in a way that made it seem lived in. Alive.

There was a fireplace against the far wall. She had never seen one in an apartment like this before. Upon further inspection, she noticed that it hadn’t been cleaned for some time. There was still some soot in the grate. A framed photo of Sherlock and John in front of a church was hung just above. It was probably their wedding photo.

Sherlock looked uncomfortable in the stiff white shirt he was wearing, but he was still smiling. John was positively beaming ear to ear, an arm wrapped around his husband’s shoulder. It was a flawless moment captured in film.

Izzy jumped a little at the sound of heavy footsteps behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she saw John fastening his tie and fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt. She felt like she’d be caught doing something horribly wrong. Snooping was probably forbidden.

“Sorry, I was just-“ she began.

“It’s fine Izzy,” he assured. “It’s a nice photograph. You shouldn’t feel bad about looking around. I don’t mind at all. Anyway, are you about ready to go?”

“Yeah, I packed up all my stuff and made my bed. Thank you for letting me stay the night Mr Watson. Will my social worker get here soon?” she said, picking up the bag and doing her best to not make eye contact. He could see that as aggression and attack. She had learnt that lesson from Mr Carkwright.

John said nothing for a moment, then gave her a confused “What?”

Izzy glanced up at him, equally puzzled. John gave her an empty stare. “To pick me up. To go to my new placement,” she mumbled. Was he going to force her to spell it out? Just to humiliate her. This was sick.

An uncomfortable silence filled the room - thick and heavy.

“I haven’t called Mr Dodson,” he said at last.

Wait, what?

Izzy tried to say something in response but couldn’t bring herself to speak. This was a trap. She didn’t know how but it was absolutely a trap.

John took a quick glance to the clock on the wall, sighed a little and gestured for Izzy to sit down on the couch. She did, though somewhat reluctantly.

“I’m not mad at you Izzy,” he began, sitting across from her on one of easy armchairs. “Far from it. What happened this morning wasn’t your fault. I have no idea how you came to the conclusion that I was angry.”

“I heard you and Mr Holmes through the walls,” she said quietly. “Talking about how I woke you up and that you were going to ‘take care of it'. By sending me away. I could tell that you were both mad.”

“That wasn’t about you Izzy,” insisted John. “I was talking about Sherlock’s hair, would you believe it? My husband has this bad habit of forgetting to brush his hair for days on ends. It makes it most unmanageable some mornings. Trust me, I’m not angry at you. And I’m not mad at him either, just a little annoyed that he has a seeming inability to accomplish basic tasks on occasion.”

Could she trust him? Izzy hadn’t truly trusted anyone in years. She nodded though; if it meant that he let her stay…

There was a pregnant pause, before John spoke again. “So Izzy, how long have you been having panic attacks? Are you on any meds? Or do you see a therapist?” The questions all came out quick fire, possible a little quicker than he intended.

Izzy looked at him blankly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

It’s true. She doesn’t.

“Have you never heard of a panic attack?” he asked. Izzy shook her head in response.

“Put simply a panic attack is a physical manifestation of someone’s anxiety. Usually it manifests through things like difficulty breathing, an increased heart rate, dizziness and nausea,” explained John. “They aren’t physically dangerous but they aren’t very unpleasant either. What happened earlier was an example of one. How often have you been having them?”

“Most days. More when I have the nightmares,” she admitted.

“Nightmares?”

“It’s all in my file. I have these terrible dreams. About lots of stuff. But mostly about my mother and when I found her… um… body and… and…”

She could feel the anxiety rising in her chest, starting in her stomach and reaching up to her heart. Just on the peripheral of her vision, she noticed John beginning to reach his hand out toward her before quickly retracting it.

“I understand Izzy. I really do,” he said. “I have nightmares as well. PTSD. From the war. I was never a foot solider but I experienced a lot of trauma. People died at my hands. I buried friends. And I lost everything. It’s been years but what I’ve seen still affects me. The difference is, with the help of my therapist, it no longer controls me. As long as the people around me respect my boundaries and are willing to work around my trauma that is.”

“I don’t expect you to tell me everything immediately. It might be a while until you can trust me with that. But what I do expect it for you to tell me your boundaries. What you would prefer my husband and I not do?”

Izzy isn’t sure what to say. What if he uses these things against her? To hurt her. It’s happened before. People get ahold of her file, read about her mother and what happened then decide to use it to manipulate and hurt her. Or hear what happened with her brother and…

**This isn’t a time to be thinking about Jacob. Think about him just upsets you. You know that.**

Even if Izzy wanted to say something , she isn’t sure where she would start. Instead, she looks down at the ground, feeling all to overwhelmed.

“I'll start you off,” offered John, trying to be helpful. “Earlier during your panic attack, you showed an aversion to touch. Would you prefer we kept our hands to ourselves? Or is it only during your panic attacks that you dislike touch?”

She had totally forgotten about that. She must have looked so pathetic.

_Why are you so scared of me? It’s not like I hurt you that much. And I only do it when you mess up. It’s all your fault really._

God. Why was she thinking of _him_ right now. Just when she thought this day couldn’t get any worse that bastard butted his way into her brain. Maybe John and Sherlock were different. Maybe she could finally trust someone again.

It’s worth a try.

“I don’t mind touch really. I don’t like it but it doesn’t trigger anything really unless I’m in that state. But you have to approach me from the front. And don’t grab me with no warning.”

“That’s doable. Anything else you can think of?” asked John.

“I don’t like loud noises. Shouting. Door slamming. That kind of thing. And alcohol. I don’t mind if you drink but I’d rather not see it. It conjures up too many…

_The stench of booze on his breath. Smashed glass on the floor. Golden liquid seeping into the carpet. She had tried to run but he'd grabbed her and…_

_“No. Stop. Please.”_

“Bad memories,” she finished.

“You’ll be pleased to know that I don’t drink at alcohol. My sister was an alcoholic for three years, which turned me right off the stuff. Sherlock’s sober too. He thinks alcohol muddles up his brain and stops him thinking properly. So there’s nothing of that sort in our house. You can check if you would like.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Can you think of anything else?” he asked. Izzy shook her head. “Let me know if anything changes.”

“For me triggers are quite specific,” he added. “Cars backfiring for example. Fireworks too. Bonfire night is hell, I usually just wear headphones to block the noise. If you could refrain from using loud alarms on your phone or watching television that includes scenes of war that should be all I need from you. Other than that I should be able to handle things myself.”

“I don’t have a phone so that won’t be a problem.”

John gave her a little look then stood up while still talking. “I should have an old one in here somewhere,” he muttered as he rooted around the drawer in the desk. “Ah ha!” he exclaimed, pulling out a brick of a phone.

“It’s pretty old,” he admitted “But it still works. And it’s a smartphone. Sherlock will set it up for you later.”

“You don’t have to give me a phone Mr Watson. I’ve survived seventeen years without one,” she said. Owing him something was the last thing she wanted to do.

“I insist upon it. You can use it to call us if necessary and to keep in touch with your friends. Is that okay with you?”

Izzy nodded, slowly though with strong intent. John gave a faint grin and set the phone down on the table

“Do you still want to go to school?” asked John going to fetch his bag. “You’ve had a pretty emotional morning. I would understand if you didn’t want to.”

“No. I do,” insisted Izzy.

As much as she found that she liked this man, she was still wary of him. Staying alone with him for an entire day was just asking for trouble.

“Okay, but we should get going now or we'll be late, said John as they left the apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on tumblr.  
> [my account](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/inkwell1013)


	12. Chapter 12

Izzy stood at the side of John’s car, toxic nerves fluttering through her head like butterflies. The car was a battered, almost run down thing, painted a non-descript black. It was by no means unclean but there was a little dust hanging on the sides and the windows could have used a good scrub. In a way, it was similar to their house and the pair themselves. Messy but real.

Overall, Izzy preferred people like this. She trusted them easier because she knew that they were being honest with themselves and not trying to hide their flaws. Still, she was wary. It usually took a few weeks for someone’s true colors to show, so she wasn’t holding her breath.

“Sorry about the state of it,” said John with a laugh. “I’ve been meaning to take it to the car wash but I’ve been so busy at work that I didn’t have time.”

“I don’t mind.”

“That’s good,” he said. “Hop in then. We’ve got to get going or you’ll be late to school.”

Izzy froze, hand on the door handle. She could sit in the front passenger seat, but then she would be next to the driver’s seat, where she would be within grabbing distance. Then all sorts could happen. She hadn’t really considered the possibility of danger because she'd hoped that there would be more distance between them that there was.

Would it be rude to ask to sit in the back? Mostly likely. Was it worth the risk? Probably not. Should she just suck it up and deal with it? Those same butterflies swarmed in number, crowding her vision and clogging her throat. She couldn’t speak now, even if she wanted to

John seemed to notice the apprehension on her face and backtracked a little. “You don’t have to sit next to me if you don’t want to. I can understand if that makes you a bit uncomfortable. Do you want to sit in the back instead?”

Izzy quickly mumbled an agreement and climbed into the back of the car. John got into the driver’s seat and buckled his seat belt. “Mind if I put on the radio?” he asked.  
She gave a small shrug, still struggling to make words appear.

  
He messed with the dials a moment, and Izzy listened intently to each station changing. It started at rock, switched to some country, and finally settled on something classical.

“Sherlock would like this piece,” he remarked. “He’s absolutely obsessed with classical music – even plays the violin.”

“How did you two meet?” murmured Izzy, suddenly curious. A wide smile spread itself across John’s face.

“It’s an interesting story actually,” he started. “So, I was a disabled veteran fresh out of Afghanistan, and my panic attacks and nightmares were making it hard to keep a place because I kept getting kicked out. One day, I was wandering about the university I studied at when I was young – just for the memories you know - and this guy runs up to me. “John Watson!” he goes “John Watson!” I didn’t recognize him at first but it was this guy I went to school with.”

“Was it Sherlock?”

John chuckled. “Not quite. It was Mike Stamford. You’ll probably meet him at some point – we’re always inviting him over. He’s a great guy, and he has a daughter about your age. Hopefully, you two will be friends.” Izzy was unsure whether she was excited about or dreading that potential meeting. What if she upset the girl and they got mad? What if this was a nice way of saying they didn’t approve of the kind of people she was friends with? What if she wasn’t allowed to see them anymore? But they hadn’t met any of her friends yet.

Izzy was never that good with new people, preferring to keep a small, close-knit social circle, but the few friends she did have were very precious to her. She stayed quiet – unsure – and stared at her hands, which were folded in her lap. John turned back to glance at her, and regretted his choice of words immediately when he saw how worried she was.

“You don’t have to be friends with her if you don’t want to. It’s up to you. I know you probably have your own friends at school,” he said.

There was silence for a moment. Izzy whispered a thank you. “Can you please finish the story?” she added, looking out the window of the car. The route they were taking wasn’t one she was familiar with, which was unsettling. Was he driving her to the right place? Did he even know which school she went to? She wanted to check, but John had started speaking again and she didn’t want to interrupt.  
“Yes. Where was I? So, he asked how I was doing and I explained the apartment struggle I was having. I admitted that I wasn’t the best person to room with. Then Mike just started laughing. And he went “You know, you’re the second person to say that to me today.”

“Ten minutes later he dragged me to the medical exam rooms and there’s this guy. I shook his hand and he asked me “Afghanistan or Iraq?” You see, Sherlock has this thing where he can figure out all sorts of things about you from just one look. I was impressed, and told him as much.”  
Izzy was a little shook. Could Sherlock have used this ability on her? What did he know? It was scary and she didn’t like it one bit. John was too deep in his story to notice her worry this time and kept speaking.

“We ended up moving in together the day after and he dragged me on this crazy case. I fell, and I fell hard, but I was still massively in denial about that part of myself. I buried my feelings and got engaged to this woman, Mary. I loved her, I really did, but she… she died soon after our wedding, and...”

He trailed off and Izzy stared at him for a moment, unsure what to call the expression writ across him face. “Things were bad for a while. I don’t want to get too much into it, very personal stuff, you know. A few months later, Sherlock and I finally figured out our feelings, and everything sort of fell into place after that.”

“But, how did you know you loved him?” Izzy asked.

John paused for a moment, thinking through what he was about to say. “I think it was when I realized that things other people found irritating, just made me smile. And when I was the only person who saw him as brilliant, when others saw him as a pompous asshole. Shit! I probably shouldn’t swear in front of a kid. God, I just did it again.”

Izzy frowned. “I’m not a kid,” she muttered. “I’m nearly eighteen…”

“How near is nearly?” he asked.

“… Six months. April 25th.”

“Still a kid to me,” he laughed. Izzy couldn’t stop her frown from deepening into a scowl. Was this going to be like Mr Dodson all over again?

“So you’re a Taurus,” John added nonchalantly, as he turned another corner she didn’t recognize.

Izzy couldn’t hide her surprise. “Do you know about astrology?” she said, excitement clear in her voice. She had never met anyone who was interested in astrology before, though she wasn’t really into it anymore. One of her previous foster fathers, Mr Johnson, had forbidden all that stuff in his house, calling it ‘obscene witchcraft’. Wait… Was he placement number nine? Or ten? She couldn’t quite remember.

She counted through each placement in her head. The Abbots and the Bartons and… Yes, she was sure that Mr Johnson was number ten. It felt like so long ago that she had been there, which it was really. That placement was about two years ago - there had been six more since then – and like many of the others, it had ended badly. Just thinking through the whole list was exhausting.

John shrugged. “I helped Sherlock investigate a case a while ago. This guy was killing people and basing their deaths on their zodiac signs. It was complicated and I don’t remember everything about the case, but I did end up learning a lot about astrology. Why, do you like it?”

Izzy was about to launch into a ramble about how much she adored astrology, but caught herself at the last second. Mr Watson probably didn’t want to hear that. “It’s… interesting stuff,” she said at last. “But I don’t like it that much. Not really.” John gave her a worried glance before abruptly changing the subject.

“Did you eat breakfast?” he asked.

“I was little too busy having a panic attack for something as unimportant as breakfast,” she thought.

“Didn’t have time,” she said.

“That’s no good Izzy. You need to eat breakfast, or you’ll be hungry at school. Can’t learn like that,” he said, rooting through his glove box. After a moment, he pulled out a slightly battered cereal bar. He handed it over with an exaggerated flourish and a grin. “Here you go.”

“You keep cereal bars in your car?” murmured Izzy, turning the bar over in her hands. Did these people eat nothing but cereal based products or something?

“Believe it or not, I keep them in here for Sherlock. When he gets all wrapped up in a case, it can be difficult to get him to eat because he gets picky or just plain forgets. We find that cereal bars are the perfect food when he’s like that. Easy to eat, high calorie density, doesn’t leave crumbs, etcetera. So, I always keep them knocking around just in case.”

“Won’t he get mad if I eat his food?”

“He won’t mind at all. Trust me.” Izzy wasn’t sure if he could do that.

They pulled up outside her school and Izzy found herself comforted by the familiar sight. At least she didn't have to go to a new school. Most of the time, going to a new school was an extra little bit of trash on the dumpster fire of a new placement. At least she had this going for her this time.

She unbuckled her seatbelt and picked up her backpack. Like everything she owned, it was scruffy and old but at least it was hers. There was a boy at her sixth placement named Mateo who had gotten ten pounds from his mum. He had bought a new backpack with the money and in a moment of kindness gifted his old one to Izzy because her only backpack was falling apart at the seams.

Izzy had liked him the most out of all the people at that group home. He had gone to live with his mother a few weeks after that and they lost touch. She hoped he was doing alright.

She and John both got out and made their way to the gates. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed John reach out his hand for just a moment before pulling it back. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” he asked.

Izzy shrugged. “I’ll be fine.”

John raised an eyebrow but continued walking. It was pretty early actually, and there weren’t many people in the hallways. At least there was no-one here to kick up a fuss about her new foster father driving her to school like she was a little kid.

“Could you point me to the principal’s office?” asked John.

“Umm… It’s just down that hallway.” She gestured vaguely in the right direction. “Third door on the left.”

“Thanks. I’ve got to get going. I can pick you up outside the school gates at four, if you want?” There was a hint of something in his voice that let Izzy know it really was up to her. She agreed, and John walked off, seemingly pleased with the conversation.

It was too early for her to go to her form room, so she went to the library instead. Nora was sitting at their usual table and reading a book, just as Izzy had expected. She had her hair in thin, tight braids today and looked beautiful, as she always did. Last week Nora wore her hair in a fluffy, loose afro and the mere sight had made her heart stop.

Izzy walked over to the table and settled down next to Nora. A deep sigh escaped from her lips before she could stop it.

“Difficult day?” asked Nora, setting down her book. Izzy nodded and rested her head on Nora’s shoulder. “Wanna talk about it?”

“If you don’t mind…” A kind smile spread across Nora’s face. Izzy couldn’t hide the blush that creeped across her cheeks. Her best friend had no business being this cute.

Izzy had known she was attracted to girls since she was about ten, but she didn’t have a word for it until she was twelve. Most of her previous foster families hadn’t been pleased about it, so she got used to hiding it. Maybe she wouldn’t have to hide it anymore. She was living with two queer men now – they probably wouldn’t have a problem with it.

“You know I’ll always listen when you need to get something off your chest. Besides, you weren’t here Friday, so I was worried. Was it him again?” The question came out as a hushed whisper. They never called Mr Carkwright by his name, it just made Izzy panic. So he was always just him when they talked.

“No actually. I’m not with him anymore. He… umm… took it bit far this time and the neighbours called the cops.” She let Nora fill in the gaps.“Was it bad?”

Izzy swallowed thicky. “Yeah. It was bad.”

“What happened?”


End file.
